


The Return of Bruno

by gloss



Category: Lost
Genre: Flash Sideways Verse, Ghosts, M/M, Partnership
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:41:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26029627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: In the Flash Sideways, Miles keeps hearing the dead. Given how their relationship is changing, that's probably something he should tell Jim about.
Relationships: James "Sawyer" Ford/Miles Straume
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	The Return of Bruno

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whalebone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalebone/gifts).



> for whalebone in the [Equality Matters](https://equalityauction.dreamwidth.org/) fundraiser for Black Lives Matter. Thank you so much for your donation and I hope this pleases. ♥
> 
> thanks to GM for suggestions and brainstorming.

As he leaves his father's office, Miles checks his phone. Three voice messages, and a text from Jim reminding him to pick up those scones he likes so much from the museum cafe.

He'd prefer to just get out of here and clear his head. Then again, if he doesn't show up at work tomorrow with the scones, Jim is sure to bitch all day. Possibly all week, if work is slow. The man has a way of zeroing in on the smallest possible complaint about the most trivial detail, then worrying at it endlessly. Like a dog with a bone, a cicada with an itch.

Not that Miles wants to be thinking about bones just now. Or bugs. His father had insisted on showing off just how efficient dermestid beetles are at cleaning skeletal remains. The old guy, geeking out in his white lab coat, kept beckoning Miles closer, and closer yet.

"You look at murder victims all the time," he'd said when Miles hung back. 

"Hey, sometimes I look at rapists and con men," Miles replied. "And regular old crime scenes."

His dad was a lot of things, but equipped with a sense of humor was not one of them. "Be that as it may, those are all aberrations. What I'm showing you is the natural order of things."

Pierre Chang lives to lecture. This is something that, eventually, Miles had to accept, lest he be driven to commit one of those _aberrations_.

Miles hangs a left out of the administration wing and heads for the cafe. On the way, he checks his voice mail: his bank; the union reminding him of elections next month; and something that sounds like wind coming off the ocean, all but drowning out a man's hoarse whisper.

Scowling, Miles stuffs the phone into his back pocket. 

"Buck up, buttercup, it ain't all so bad," Jim drawls. He's standing in front of the scones, a tray in one hand, cup of coffee in the other. He lifts the coffee in a mock-toast to Miles. He looks like a damn cowboy woke up and peeled himself off the _Anglos Find California, Help Themselves_ mural in the museum foyer.

"The hell are you doing here?" Miles grabs a tray and joins him.

"Good afternoon to you, too, sunshine."

"Yeah, yeah." Miles fills an extra-large cup with coffee and sets it down, sloshing the liquid over his hand. "Fuck."

"Easy," Jim says, completely unnecessarily, then takes Miles' tray for him. "You pay, I'll go scout us a table."

Smooth, how he nearly always manages to duck the bill. Miles mumbles to the cashier — she's still staring, starry-eyed, at Jim, who'd winked at her and grinned and slid right through the turnstile — and flashes his museum staff ID for 30% off the total.

"Now, what's got you so grumpy?" Jim asks when Miles joins him. The table is right next to the French doors, open to the courtyard out back. Sun paints Jim's hair blinding shades of gold and deepens the lines in his smirking face. 

"What are you doing here?" Miles replies.

They stare at each other for a while, challenging, waiting, daring.

Finally, sighing and shrugging, Jim breaks. Hooking an elbow over the back of his chair, he sits back. "These visits never agree with you. Thought I'd come along to help."

"I came for your scones." He hears how sullen he sounds and hates how automatic defensiveness is, even with Jim.

"And I appreciate that, even if you did go for the fruit over the savories you know I prefer."

Miles looks down at his tray. "Shit. Sorry about that."

"No harm done," Jim says. His voice gets quieter and more serious as he leans in, hand squeezing Miles' shoulder. "You sure you're doing okay?"

"I didn't say I was doing okay."

"You didn't, no, but I was being nice."

Snorting, Miles shakes his head. "That's a new one."

"Well, well," Jim says sweetly. "Thought we were trying new tacks and approaches." He's still leaning close, his face about ten inches from Miles'. 

The way he's looking Miles over, eyes scanning him, makes Miles think of dermestids scrambling over the remains. Then Miles blinks, shakes that thought away, and returns Jim's look.

"There we are," Jim says. His eyes seem to darken as he blinks slowly. "Hey, there."

"Hey," Miles replies. "Thanks for showing up."

Jim's hand slips up to the base of Miles' neck. Just for a moment, a quick squeeze and warm pressure, then it's over. And Miles feels something trembling over his skin.

"Any time, partner," Jim says and takes an enormous bite off a cheddar-chive scone. The grin he gives Miles has crumbs all over it, the jackass.

Coffee and pastries help dispel the last of Miles' mood, so by the time they've finished, he feels much better. There's still an entire afternoon and evening left to his day off and he's about to ask Jim if he wants to catch a movie or just go back to his place with a couple six packs and Salvadoran take-out.

Jim takes a call as Miles is finishing off his coffee. Frowning, Jim holds his phone out. "For you."

"Work?"

Shrugging, Jim moves the phone impatiently.

Miles takes it. "Straume."

He hears wind, the patter of rain, creaking metal. A woman says in little more than a croak, _help I need someone_.

He does not drop the phone. He hits the button to hang up and sucks in breath through his nose as he slides the phone back over to Jim.

"The hell is going on?" Jim asks.

Miles presses the heels of his hands against his eyes until he sees green orbs fluorescing into red, then reversing. "Nothing," he says and Jim starts to splutter, so he says quickly, "Nothing new."

"Outside," Jim says, a little roughly, and hauls him up by his elbow. They leave the trays where they are, like a couple of douchebags, and Jim holds open the French door so Miles can step outside first. It's bright and hot out here; he tips back his head to the glare of the sky and breathes.

On a ridiculously frou-frou wrought-iron bench, Miles sits next to Jim and tries to explain. Jim straddles the bench, while Miles hunches over his lap, staring at his hands.

There isn't much to explain: _I hear dead people. Always have. Lately, they're getting a little pushier._

"That makes me Bruce Willis in this scenario, then?" Jim asks when Miles is finished. 

"Shut up."

"'Cause I got to say, I'd like to think I've got a little more style than a bald potato in a trench coat, you know?"

"Jim," Miles says. "Shut up?"

"You do make a pretty little ghost whisperer." 

Jim's hand is on Miles' back again, much lower, in the hollow at the small of his back, exposed as Miles leans over. There's hardly any pressure, just familiarity grounding him.

"However," Jim continues, "I'm not dead, last I checked."

"No," Miles replies. "You're not."

Jim pinches the exposed skin, low enough to be technically ass, then slaps him. "Think we should test that, though. Investigate all angles. Make sure we haven't missed anything."

"Yeah, good thinking." Miles stands and makes for the courtyard exit, the one that gives out on to the parking lot. Each step he takes away from the museum gets him a little farther from the chorus of dead things.

They skip the movie and even the beer for a dash to Miles' apartment. A frantic makeout on the fold-out couch and half-dressed handjobs leads to a wrestling match that Miles wins. He straddles Jim, pinning his wrists over his head, and he's panting, trying to find the breath to speak.

Jim just grins up at him, eyes crinkling closed, hair gone dark with sweat at the roots, and Miles can't hear anything but his own pulse and the little grunts Jim gives out every time they grind together.

It's more than enough for now.


End file.
